


Bad War, Good Soldier

by GhostGarrison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1960s AU, AU, Angst, Hippie!Cas, M/M, PTSD, Reunions, Touch Therapy, communal-style living, soldier!sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel wanders from room to room in his communal house, drifting aimlessly between fellow hippies who chatter happily about the environment and planning protests against the war in Vietnam. He can't help but to feel guilty he had once protested the war that took his Sam away from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad War, Good Soldier

Castiel wakes to the pitter patter of raindrops against his window, his chest heaving from yet another nightmare he can’t seem to remember. He’s been having too many of those. His heart beats fast against his ribs as he struggles to catch his breath. Pathetic. 

Gray light floods into his tiny room through the single window, desaturating his normally colorful decor and he can already tell it’s going to do nothing to improve his mood. Cloudy and overcast, the man on the radio said the day before. Rain all day.

His stomach rumbles, dutifully reminding him that he hasn’t eaten since yesterday’s dinner and he knows it’s already past noon, despite not having a clock or watch nearby to confirm it.

Rolling off his thin mattress situated plainly on the floor, Castiel lazily stands up to stretch. He lets out a gratified sigh as his arms reach over his head, spine cracking in several places before he relaxes and rolls his shoulders a few times.

He pulls on the same light blue linen shirt from the day before, discarded on the floor near the mattress from when he crawled into bed at around midnight, after attending Lisa’s late night yoga session that she holds daily. Castiel’s lower back still aches from holding the kapotasana pose for nearly two minutes straight. He isn’t quite sure if he’ll be attending tonight’s session, but Lisa will understand.

When he walks out into the hall, the house is abuzz with life. The rain seems to have driven the house’s occupants in, keeping them from their usual outdoor activities and errands. Bob Seger’s “2+2” filters through the bead curtains that hang over the doorway to Andy’s room and from the corner of Castiel’s eye, he can spot the haze of marijuana smoke billowing out.

The stairs creak underneath his bare feet, its wooden steps smooth and worn from constant use from the nearly thirty inhabitants of the communal-style house. Sarah Blake passes him on the way down the hall to the kitchen, flashing him a gentle smile as she carries her old painted guitar to the common room, no doubt to practice playing and provide the weary people in there with some peaceful music in the midst of this rainy day.

“Castiel, hello!” Garth greets him cheerfully as ever when he enters the kitchen, full of almost a dozen people, all trying to cook lunch together.

“Good morning, Garth,” Castiel returns, voice rough with sleep and thirst.

He chuckles, light and lively against the general mood that the light of the gray rainy skies cast through the windows. “It’s twelve forty-five, silly.”

Castiel nods, shuffling past his cooking peers and taking care to avoid stepping on any spilled ingredients or dropped utensils with his bare feet. He peers into the shelves next to the sink where April is filling a pot with water and frowns at the lack of selection—whoever is in charge of dishes for the week is neglecting their assigned duties. 

He sighs, picking out a chipped green mug from the back of the shelf. Sometimes communal housing isn’t the smoothest operation, but he’s happy here.

Or at least content. At least he’s surrounded by like-minded people and there’s always something to do. The constant interaction helps him keep his mind off things.

“Sandwich?” Garth asks when he turns around, holding out a plate with what looks to be a ham and cheese sandwich on homemade organic bread that Risa spent all weekend making.

“No, thank you.” Castiel elects to grab an apple out of the second refrigerator instead before pouring himself a mug of tea from the kettle warming on the stove. He bids Garth farewell before leaving the kitchen to return to his room, not really in the mood for people today.

Meg intercepts him in the hallway. He could have breezed right past her but it’s been a few days since they’ve last talked and he knows she won’t let him get away this time.

“Clarence,” she coos, putting a hand to his chest to slow him to a stop. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been busy,” Castiel replies, which is a total lie since all he’s done in the past few days was tend to the rooftop garden as is his assigned household duty, and amble about his small room while listening to the radio.

“Sure you have,” she says with a sly smile, lips curling up at the edges. Her hand grips the front of his shirt, dragging him forwards a few inches. “Come eat in the common room. We’re organizing a peace protest on—”

“No,” he interrupts. Meg’s smile fades into a frown as she lets go of his shirt, tapping his foot as she waits for an explanation. “I am tired.”

It isn’t a lie. Each day is more tiring than the last.

Meg looks him over, eyes raking over him from head to toe with a displeased sigh. “Alright, Clarence. Come on down when you’re feeling better and I’ll fill you in.”

“Thank you,” Castiel mumbles as she turns and leaves him alone in the hall.

Safely confined in his room, no bigger than a large storage closet with a window and mattress, Castiel sets his steaming mug and apple down the small bedside table in the corner. The transistor radio buzzes to life and he fiddles with the dials until he can find a clear station with little interference. A beautiful voice of a woman filters through the speakers and he immediately recognizes it as Madeline Davis, one of his favorites.

Retrieving his mug, Castiel settles himself in front of the window, sitting cross-legged as he gazes out to the streets below.

The Happy House—which honestly isn’t a house but rather a strangely converted office building wedged between two apartment buildings—is settled in the western part of downtown, close to the hustle and bustle of the corporate population of the city. From his room, he can watch the sea of black umbrellas covering men in suits going to and from their commercialist jobs, working for the system that isn’t serving them anymore. 

The drizzling rain doesn’t stop the dark-clothed crowd from being speckled with bright colors and patterns of peace protestors holding signs and holding a small rally. From such a distance, Castiel can only make out the words of a few of the biggest ones.

 _“Love, not war!”_ one sign says, ‘love’ painted in rainbow paint to contrast with the brash brush strokes of the black paint of ‘war.’

 _“I won’t fight a rich man’s war!”_ another reads, held up by no other than Ava Wilson, a generally nice girl who lives just above Castiel’s own room, who sometimes becomes loud and voracious when it comes to her feelings and opinions on the war in Vietnam.

Castiel exhales, looking away from his protesting friends and staring up at the tumultuous dark clouds, swirling above the tall buildings of the city. He just feels so _guilty_.

Three years ago, Castiel would have been the one out there, shouting at the uncaring corporate slaves passing by. He was once so against the war and its effects on the free and democratic society that America stood for. At one point, protesting the war in Vietnam and the fight for the pursuit of peace and harmony was the most important thing in the world.

That was until Sam, the love of his life, was drafted into the United States army.

After that, Castiel felt like a traitor for protesting a war that Sam is fighting in. He couldn’t be both supportive of Sam and his efforts and a flagrant anti-war activist at the same time, and it quickly tore him apart, leaving him as he is now. Confused, aimless, and depressed.

Staring at nothing particular beyond the glass of his window, his thoughts drift—though certainly not for the first time, nor the last—to Sam and the day he was drafted.

“My number came up,” Sam said over lunch one day, both of them seated on the mattress of their once-shared room in the Happy House. His voice came out as a shaky whisper next. “I’m being drafted.”

Castiel counts that as the second worst day of his young life, only behind the day Sam kissed him goodbye on the sidewalk outside of the Draft Office, right before he disappeared behind steel doors forever.

That was the last time he saw Sam. Two and a half years ago.

Not a day goes by that Castiel doesn’t think about his long lost soldier. He often wonders where Sam is stationed and how he is doing, serving on the front lines of a war they both protested together. The fact that Castiel would never be notified by anyone if Sam were to lose his life in the line of duty hangs heavy in his heart, a far heavier weight than he’s ever known.

President Nixon explained in his speech that the United States military was instituting “the eventual pull-out of the American forces,” but it’s been a slow-going process, thus Castiel’s friends still protesting on the streets.

Troops are slowly returning home and it’s been frightening. Missing arms and legs, covered in scars from bullets and burns, eyes wide with the remembrance of the terrible things they’ve seen and done makes Castiel shiver and his blood run cold.

With spirits down far too early in the day, he decides to spend the rest of the afternoon reading in his room, thankful that the rain is doing his job on the rooftop garden. He settles down on his mattress with _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ , one of his favorite pieces of literature that he could read over and over. His soul is soothed a little by getting lost in the world of Airstrip One and the life of Winston Smith and he dozes off just after five, book still laid against his chest.

The rain has slowed down to a sprinkle and the sky has become darker when he wakes up to two short knocks on his door. He stirs slowly and lethargically, not in the mood for having any visitors at this hour on this day. He lies back on his mattress, wondering to himself if he ignores it, the knocker will just lose interest and go away.

Or maybe not. The knocks strike again, just as quiet as before. He heaves himself up, mumbling “coming” as he hauls himself to his feet rather unwillingly.

It’s probably Meg, coming to drag him out to socialize and participate in protest planning. Or maybe Sarah, who often comes to him in search of a listening ear. She’s a little more difficult to turn away because his soft heart, but maybe she’ll find another willing ear elsewhere if he tells her that he’s feeling ill.

The light in his room is darkening quickly with the setting sun behind the cloudy ceiling of the sky outside. It must be getting chillier as the wooden floor beneath his sockless feet is cold and unwelcoming, unlike the warmth of his bed which beckons him back like it has its own gravitational pull.

He prepares himself to deny whoever it is seeking him out but when he swings the door open, the words die on his lips. His breath gets caught in his throat and he swears that his heart has stopped beating.

Sam— _dear Sam_ —stands before him, lingering in the hallway like a ghost of Castiel’s memories. He looks strikingly different, incredibly so, but it’s definitely Sam. _His_ Sam.

Hazel eyes look down at him, bright and familiar but framed by a weary and gaunt face. Castiel can tell he’s lost weight but gained muscle. Sam’s still dressed in his army greens, matching duffle bag slung over his shoulder. His hair isn’t long anymore, not like it was the day he left, long enough to braid and thread flowers through. Now it’s only a few shaggy inches, obviously cut to a buzz a few times but left neglected more recently.

Out of all these changes, the scar that mar Sam’s left cheek and brow are the most shocking.

“Sam—” Castiel breathes, finally saying the name out loud for the first time in over a year.

Sam doesn’t reply but instead lunges forwards, dropping his bag just inside the door before kicking it closed with a booted foot. His lips crash into Castiel’s and he’s nearly toppled over, only to be returned to balance by Sam’s strong arms, much thicker and well-defined than he remembered.

Castiel’s brain feels jumbled but he instinctively latches onto Sam, not stopping to consider if this was all a dream or drug-induced nightmare. He hasn’t smoked in a few days when Andy offered to share, but he has a feeling this is real. All he can see is Sam, all he can feel is Sam, all he can taste is Sam, all he can smell is Sam.

_Sam, Sam, Sam. Glorious Sam._

Their mouths move together, desperate and needy and full of years of grief and built up passion with no outlet. Sam’s arms curl tighter around his waist with unyielding strength, lifting him up off his toes. Castiel grips back, bringing his legs up to wind around Sam’s waist. He’s always been able to carry Castiel before, but now Sam doesn’t bend under his weight at all.

“Sam—” Castiel gasps between kisses, clawing at the man’s back for purchase. “Sam.”

Saying nothing, Sam continues to take his breath away with his lips as he carries Castiel further into the room, towards the mattress that once felt too big but will finally feel just right tonight.

Sam falls to his knees on the thin material before gently pulling Castiel away by the shoulders, still straddling his waist. Their breaths are hot and wet against each other’s faces and its the first time Castiel is able to get a good look at the scars up close. Some are red and puffy from recent injuries but some are white and indented, year old. They scatter across his the side of his face and Castiel leans forwards to kiss them, only to be stopped.

Wordlessly, Sam lays him back tenderly, as if Castiel were made of glass. His legs part and Sam slides between them, scrambling forwards to kiss Castiel again. Just one soft and lingering one, nothing like the ones from the minutes before, before sitting back on his heels.

The hands that idled on the sides of Castiel’s neck drifted downwards, tracking across the flat expanse of his chest until his fingers brushed across the split of bare skin between the hem of his shirt and the drawstring waistband of his pants. Sam’s fingertips are cold but fully welcome against his skin as they shove the fabric of his shirt up, exposing more.

Castiel hesitates for only a moment before he reaches down and assists Sam’s efforts by pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. Content with one less barrier between them, Castiel leans back against the mattress again to look up at Sam.

His eyes are set on Castiel but he refuses to meet his gaze, instead they roam across his torso as if Sam has never seen him before. It’s been too long.

It takes a moment but Castiel realizes they’re silently breathing shaky breaths, both in awe that the moment is real. Sam’s palms continue to explore and it seems that he’s determined to touch every inch of skin he can reach. His hands are calloused and rough as they trace around the curves of Castiel’s shoulders and trailing up and down his arms, stopping every once in awhile to give a gentle squeeze.

The sun is almost fully set behind the clouds and the lack of light in addition to the street lamps outside are casting a shadow across Sam’s face, highlighting the familiar jut of a strong jawbone but also accentuating the myriad of newly gained scars. 

Sam doesn’t seem to notice Castiel staring at him intensely but instead continues to caress him gently down his sides until his fingers brush against the waistband of his linen pants, pausing there momentarily before hooking fingertips beneath. Castiel jumps on board quickly like before, reaching down to undo the drawstring and lifting his hips while Sam pulls them off, tossing them somewhere near the shirt they discarded earlier.

Suddenly Castiel feels a pang of guilt and want, mixed together in an incoherent form. Sam’s here, finally here, and all he’s been doing is letting the other man touch him. They both need to touch and be touched, to make up for all the time lost and to celebrate the fact that they will have more time in the future.

Propping himself up on his elbows, Castiel reaches forwards, slowly with one hand, to brush his fingers along the scars on Sam’s face.

Centimeters away, Sam’s hand quickly flies up and stops Castiel’s hand in its tracks. His grip is strong and bordering on painful, but Sam gives no sign of letting go or lightening up right away.

“Please,” Sam whispers for the first time since he showed up at his door, but it sounds like more of a choked sob—like a plea. “Just let me…”

It breaks Castiel’s heart into to millions of pieces when he hears Sam speak. It’s the voice of a shattered man, roughened by war and death and violence. It hardly sounds like Sam at all, but this is a different Sam, returned home to him in one piece and that’s all he could have ever hoped for after two and a half long years.

When Sam releases him, Castiel lies back and becomes slack underneath the physical scrutiny of his love, allowing Sam to take whatever it is that he needs, to do whatever it is that he needs to do. Touch and feel and remember, ensuring that this is real and they’re both alive, breathing the same smoke-infused air at the Happy House.

Sam trails his hands down his thighs, rubbing small circles there until they hook underneath Castiel’s knees. He brings one up high, pressing his lips in a kiss to the inside of one knee before doing the same with the other. 

Castiel can only watch in wonder as Sam continues to touch him and it takes every ounce of self-control in his body to not reach out and touch back. He’s been waiting so long for this, but Sam comes first. Always.

Hands wander back up his calves, under his knees and up the sides of his thighs. Short fingernails tease the skin of Castiel’s stomach until warm fingers wrap around his shoulders and neck, bringing Sam’s face in closer and closer.

Their eyes finally meet again and, in such close proximity, Castiel can see the years worth of sadness and grief that lies within those hazel eyes, becoming wet at the edges. 

Not being able to hold back at the sight, Castiel surges upwards to plant a kiss on Sam’s lips but misses by an inch and instead lands on one of Sam’s numerous scars. The action causes him to gasp and pull away slightly, but Castiel reaches out gently and slowly, brushing his own fingertips past the scars to his hair, threading them through the short brown locks.

Sam collapses on him suddenly, forcing the air out of Castiel’s lungs in surprise.

“Cas,” Sam murmurs against his ear, shoving his face against Castiel’s neck as he begins to cry.

Castiel holds him for what feels like hours that night, feeling the wetness against his neck and Sam’s shuddering and heaving body against his, wondering what kind of path Sam has taken in the past few years and what kind of path they will take in the next.

Together, he and his soldier.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a history major and I just love historical AUs, okay? Visit me on GhostGarrison @ tumblr.


End file.
